


Synthesis

by englishmajor226



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), WandaVision (TV)
Genre: Canon-Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:33:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29590773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englishmajor226/pseuds/englishmajor226
Summary: This is a Wanda/Vision fic that alternates from the events in Wandavision to a lead-up of all past events until Infinity War, exclusively from Vision’s POV. Hang tight, kids. It’s gonna be a long one.*Story has been mildly edited as of 2/26 to reflect the new events of Wandavision.
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 16
Kudos: 52





	1. An Unusual Couple

**Chapter One: An Unusual Couple**

A brilliant sheen of variations of silver meets him as he opens his eyes. It is rich and metallic all around, and as his eyes focus, he tries to make sense of it. There is a lack of something; he understands this almost immediately.

 _Identifying,_ his mind tells him. The duality of his own being comes into focus, the sense that he’s always been able to do this. Record everything, program his own body, take in each ambient sound and sight and touch and smell, and that he, with a moment’s thought, can understand what is not understood. Through accessing…

 _Internet, offline,_ the knowledge comes to him _. Based on terrain and signposts, three miles outside of Westview, New Jersey._ His forehead strains in concentration, he clenches and unclenches his hands, which, he realizes, are suddenly on the steering wheel of a vehicle. It is sensory overload, to understand what his own mind is telling him. Having the internet offline, whatever that might mean, seems like an extraordinary problem, as if he were missing an arm or another imperative appendage, but he can’t seem to recall why. He can’t remember what _it_ is. His hands tighten reflexively on the steering wheel as his sensory input grows, and suddenly, he turns, and she’s there.

 _She._ Already, his mind is inundated with the important information he needs since his cognitive system wiped the corrupted memory files. _Wanda,_ his mind offers him. _Wanda Maximoff. Human. Enhanced individual. Female. Wife._ Suddenly, a wide variety of complex thoughts descend on him at once, so complex in nature his mind is replacing them with overarching emotional concepts to understand them. _Admiration. Longing. Love. Feeling._ A desperate sensation that he would lay down his own life to keep her out of harm’s way comes to him, and just as the thought is processed, he _feels_ this to be true, ingrained in every synthetic fiber, inlaid in every spare organic cell he has. And then, the other details come into place. She is in a... _wedding dress..._ his mind offers him, and she is grinning at him happily. She is beautiful. 

  
  


\--

Precisely seven minutes, eighteen seconds, and five milliseconds later, he is dancing with her in the living room of their new home. They have not spoken to each other, not yet, but in those seven minutes, eighteen seconds, and five milliseconds, his feelings (Define: feeling. _Internet offline. Based on previous search history:_ /ˈfēliNG/ _noun_ \- an emotional state or reaction) have only intensified, as has his knowledge of who she is. She is kind, above-average intelligence, introverted, but not unwilling to be socially affable. She is originally from a place called Sokovia, although she has seemed to have lost all trace of her accent. She was orphaned at a young age. She can play both the ukulele and guitar, and has an aptitude for sounding out the notes of music. She wrinkles her nose sometimes when she smiles. She’s generally optimistic, although there is a thread of sadness that runs through her, especially when she’s lost in thought. She enjoys the occasional glass of wine, and tends to cry during films melancholic in nature. She is worried that her telepathic and telekinetic abilities set her apart from humanity. She has a dry wit, and enjoys the more intellectual side of humor. She sees something in him he is not sure he sees in himself. She does not, apparently, seem to mind that he is non-human. She calls him “Vis” for short. 

Reflexively, he finds that he enjoys, has always enjoyed, the nickname. He understands that he has a deep, profound appreciation for life that stemmed from a nascent wonder for the world, something that, originally, that seemed somehow out of his grasp. His intellect is seemingly boundless, but his emotional intelligence somehow feels...lacking. She does not seem to fault him for this. He enjoys the company of others, but revels in her company the most. 

Suddenly, he feels compelled to dip her while slow dancing-- _Is there music playing? He cannot be sure--_ and when he lifts her up, one of her brows arches upward, and he understands it’s a small expectation and/or request playing out on her features. Without hesitating, he pulls her closer, her hand moves from his shoulder to around his neck, and the other snakes up his chest, and he clutches it tighter as he presses his lips against hers. It starts out chastely at first, but then quickly evolves with an alarming sense of passion that sends the unending noise of another part of him detachedly processing zeros and ones to a screeching halt. She sighs, and it is a first kiss, and yet it isn’t, as they must have shared countless others, even if everything before this moment is, somehow, simply _not._

  
  


\--

He feels her lips graze the corner of his mouth, and he opens his eyes. He hadn’t noticed she had risen. ( _Why hadn’t he? The separate twin beds must have had something to do with it.)_ He himself had not been sleeping, couldn’t sleep, in fact, but had taken to doing what his mind told him he was supposed to do when Wanda was sleeping: close his eyes, take in less sensory input, _settle for the night._

Now, when his eyes open, a wide grin breaks out on his face as he sits up in bed, noticing his wife in hair curlers and a bathrobe, hands on her hips.

“Sweetheart, you’re going to be late for work,” she says, a trace of concern in her voice, while standing over him, and he tilts his head at her inquisitively. 

“Morning to you, too,” he tells her through a smirk, and grabs her hand reflexively to pull her to his level, and something compels him to kiss her deeply. She’s surprised at first, but quickly sighs into the kiss, her tongue even swiping over his, and if he had a pulse, it would be surging. He holds her closer, enveloping her, before she remembers herself, pulling back a little with a breathless giggle. “Uh uh. Nope! Don’t you even _think_ about it, mister.”

She doesn’t stand, however, and she still has her alabaster hand in the darker, rich grey of his, before she looks at him with slightly furrowed brows

“Why _did_ I get up before you? You’re always awake, aren’t you? What...were you doing?” she asks, now reaching her free hand to his face, which he leans into, practically on instinct.

“I was...I’m not quite sure, exactly. Drifting, I suppose,” he says, yawning, even though he doesn’t need to. He picked up the habit somewhere, like all of the more human-like habits he possesses. Like sighing, or rolling up his sleeves, or crossing his legs, or folding his hands together in thought. All of the non-verbal signs of communication that suggest a thousand different cultural meanings, ways to also reflect the facade of seeking comfort in one’s own body. The mimicking of the give and take between body and mind, seeking corporal comfort, as if such a dichotomy existed for him, which it doesn’t. How he picked up these habits, he couldn’t be certain, but they are all now intuitively at his disposal.

“Drifting?” Wanda says, obviously not convinced. He kisses her palm lightly, before continuing.

“I am not so certain what _else_ to call it. Things have been quiet lately, up here,” he murmurs, lightly tapping against the vibranium at his temple. “So I simply let myself… settle. Surely I’ve done it before?” he asks her, and her frown deepens, but she doesn’t answer and instead before turns back to the clock on the wall.

“Oh goodness! You’re _really_ going to be late!” she says again and he blinks at her.

“Darling, it’s 7:48am. I don’t have to be there until 8am, sharp,” he says, swiping a thumb over her palm as he does so. 

“And just _how_ do you think you’re getting there?” she asks with a coy arch of her brow. 

“I’d...well. I’d fly,” he says, understanding immediately that this is not the right answer, somehow.

“Uh uh. Remember, sweetheart, we’re trying to fit in. We can’t have you... _hovering about..._ everywhere. That means you’ll have to take the car, or walk,” she says through a shrug of her shoulders, and now it’s his turn to frown.

“Forgive me, dear. I’d...forgotten,” he says through a sigh, and she smiles once more at him, pressing her lips to his cheek, and his skin, which is precisely twelve degrees cooler to her ninety eight degrees Fahrenheit, warms at her touch momentarily, and he gets the sense that it always has when she kisses any part of his body.

“You’re forgiven,” she whispers sweetly into his ear, and then with one last squeeze of her hand in his, she stands and saunters off into the bathroom. Vision can’t help himself from admiring her figure as she shuts the bathroom door behind her, presumably to finish getting ready. As the bathroom is a space exclusive to Wanda- he has no need of any of its various facilities-- he stands. _Time. 7:54am._

“Good grief. I _am_ late,” he mutters to himself out loud, and, for a moment, he swears that he hears the echo of a chorus of laughter. He jerks his head to the right and the left, but only sees the generic furniture, not unlike what one would find in a hotel room. No qualifiers, really, of an intimate or personal life unique to Wanda or Vision anywhere. As he looks around, somewhat confused, the chorus of laughter once again echoes. _Identify,_ he whispers mentally, practically a prayer from within, but the computational side of his mind offers no answers. Frowning again, he quickly phases out of the pajamas he finds himself in and phases into a suit and tie, without a conscious thought about it. Something about it feels lacking though, and as he glances around, he realizes why. Coincidentally enough, a watch and a billfold he isn’t sure he recognizes are on their shared dresser. Vision has no use for these things, but he seems compelled to slide the billfold into his pocket and pick up the watch. He pauses momentarily, gripping the metal and tilting his head in thought. _Left hand? Right?_ He is ambidextrous, afterall, but, after another moment’s hesitation, settles on putting the timepiece on his left, Wanda’s warning of “blending in” so loud in his mind he idly wonders if even seeming left-handed would be too out of line. 

Breakfast is a bit of a blunder. They both seem confused by the date on the calendar and the significance of the heart drawn on the square that marks that particular Wednesday, although the significance of the date doesn’t bother him as much as the mere fact that he indeed _must have_ forgotten in the first place. It gnaws at him, but he has no time to think of it, and even though it is clearly now 7:54am, Vision still takes the time to blow a kiss to Wanda, before donning a hat and touting a briefcase on the way out. It’s only after he’s stepped into the front yard does he encounter another roadblock.

 _A map of Westview,_ he requests, before the same old answer floats up to his consciousness. _Internet, offline._ He frowns slightly, mechanical eyes hidden under the disguise of mundane human blue ones dart left and right, until his feet instinctively take him left. As his short walk leads him into town, he realizes _Computational Services, Inc._ is just off the town square. _Fitting,_ he muses to himself as the slight breeze and the comfortable temperature of seventy two degrees Farenheit warms his back. Determinedly, he makes his way across the town square, under the shadow of a looming gazebo. 

  
  


\--

“I couldn’t find the lobsters, and did you want the meat tender or pulverized?” he mutters anxiously to his wife, who only breathes a nervous, “oh dear” before swiping the apron off of him and prancing into the kitchen once more. 

This whole night’s been a bloody nightmare. (Define: nightmare. _Internet offline. Based on previous search history:_ /ˈnītˌmer/ _noun:_ a frightening or unpleasant dream.) He isn’t entirely sure _what_ Wanda had been thinking was happening tonight, some romantic soirée, and he dearly wishes it had been _that_ instead of _this._ But he’s quickly realizing his job is on the line and they are on thin ice masking everything they are trying to hide. ( _Why were they hiding again? Had they always hidden what they could do? If so, how had they even found each other in the first place?)_

“Well, I think tonight’s going _swimmingly,”_ he lies, as Mr. and Mrs. Hart stare at him incredulously. “Anyone for Parcheesi?” 

Quickly, Mrs. Hart is feeling dizzy, Mr. Hart is doubting his ability to climb the ranks of lower-level management, and a sense of threat and danger descend upon the house until he hears his wife’s voice, announcing dinner is served, and she is his saving grace, his guardian angel, his anchor to whatever reality he has been dithering about in all day.

“Oh! Let’s have a toast!” he finds himself saying, thanking Wanda with his eyes as they move to the table.

“To my lovely and talented wife,” he says seriously, with affection, while lifting a glass of red in her direction.

“To our _esteemed_ guests,” she says, eyes widening and glancing at the older couple.

“ _Yes._ Cin cin,” he mutters in Italian, and they clink glasses, and he sips the wine, and the taste of bitter fermented grapes should be there, but it isn’t, because he cannot experience taste, before he surreptitiously expectorates the wine back into the glass while everyone else indulges. 

As he draws out a chair for Mrs. Hart, she is already peppering them with questions. _So, where did you two move from? What brought you here? How long have you been married? And why don’t you have children yet?_

Wanda lets out an exhausted laugh, which Vision mimics, before he catches her staring confusedly past his left shoulder, even as her hands fumble to lay her napkin in her lap. Another beat, and he finds himself speaking up.

“Huh. I think what my... wife…means to say is that we, w-we moved from, umm…” he drifts off, looking to her for answers.

“Yes! We moved from…” she now stares at her food with much concentration, and he feels the need to help her again, but the answers that _should_ be there do not come.

“And we were married…” Vision begins, and yet, once more, is unable to finish the sentence. Impotent. 

“Yes, yes, we were married in…” Wanda mimics him, but then, just as he cannot quite summon the correct answers, neither can she. 

She glances at him, suddenly defenseless, panic in her eyes, and something rises within him that feels much like helplessness. (Define. Helplessness. _Internet offline. Based on previous search history:_ /ˈhelpləsnəs/ _noun_ : inability to defend oneself or to act effectively.)

Meanwhile, despite Mrs. Hart trying to politely temper him, Mr. Hart starts demanding answers as his frustration with their hesitancy grows, and Vision panics. _Identify! Goddamnit, identify,_ he commands his own mind, which only answers with, _no previous record or data in memory banks. See: corrupted files._

By now, Mr. Hart is pounding on the table, until it goes barely noticed by Vision that a piece of food has been lodged in his throat. He stares at Mr. Hart, but only blinks at the choking man, as Vision’s cognitive function whirls and spins uselessly, caught in a loop, caught in a nightmare, until he hears Wanda’s words clear as day ring out across the table.

“Vision, help him.” 

Mere moments later, after phasing his hand to dislodge the food, the odd sense of dread that filled the room moments before dissipates, and Mr. and Mrs. Hart excuse themselves. It is odd, they had just barely begun to eat, but they are gone as quickly as they came, and as Wanda shuts the door, they both breathe easier. Vision leans onto the couch, steadying himself. ( _Has he needed to do this before?)_ before phasing back to his natural dark grey and vibranium silver.

As if on cue, Wanda says, “We are an unusual couple, you know.” She has settled down onto the couch, and he mimics her once more, as if he is supposed to, as if he should.

“Oh, I don’t think that was ever in question,” he mutters, snatching the remote, and settling down next to her, an arm around her shoulders. Wanda still seems troubled by this fact, and goes on to explain that they don't have an anniversary, or a song, or even wedding rings. He pauses for a moment, desperate to provide the answers she requires, and jokes about _today_ being their anniversary. _Yakety Yak_ is their song. But the rings…

“Well couldn’t you make some for us?” he asks, and then a band of silver marks his ring finger, as does hers, and he finds himself compelled to say, “I do. Do you?”

And then he needs the answer. He craves it with something deep and profound within him. _Please say yes. Please, let this be the constant._

He stares at her intently as she turns to him, and says, with dewey eyes while clasping his hand, “Yes. I do.”

His expression doesn’t change, and their eyes are locked, as he murmurs, “And they lived happily ever after.”

And then, easily, precisely, naturally, she leans into him, and they kiss to the _oohs_ and _ahhs_ of someone, as soft music plays, as the world spins, or has stopped spinning, or was never meant to in the first place.

—

They watch _The Dick Van Dyke_ show for twenty eight minutes, but then Wanda is yawning, leaning in closer to Vision, her head now on his chest. He runs his fingers through her hair for a moment, savoring the feeling between his fingers, before kissing the top of her head gently. He is not quite certain how she has come to love him, but, in moments like these, he is entirely grateful that she does. A human, a complex woman with a million neurons firing in ways that he would never be able to comprehend, sitting here, loving _him,_ a machine. _No, not quite_ , his mind corrects him. A hybrid, perhaps, an enigma, a riddle he has never been able to truly solve. So many of the human things he has learned, that he inherently _knows,_ and yet so many he will never experience: physical discomfort, taste, and perhaps, he fears, _true_ emotion. His systems do not dump dopamine into his brain, he has no concept of serotonin, and still...

She is here, loving him. 

“Darling...perhaps we should retire for the night,” he murmurs into her ear, and she only makes a sound of contentment in her sleep. He smiles slightly, realizing he refuses to wake her, and instead easily lifts her up in his arms. She turns inward towards his chest more, and something in him warms. It’s a short walk into their shared room, but unshared beds, and he lays her gently down on hers before sitting on the edge of the same bed. He brushes back her hair, and he doesn’t have to make a conscious effort to memorize every detail, every feature, things that were blurry before yesterday coming into a new, stark reality. And then, feeling a deep compulsion, he kisses her ever so slightly. She is smiling softly in her sleep, but then her brows furrow, and he finds himself grasping her hand for a moment, and then she once more settles. He sits with her, hands intertwined, for fifty eight more minutes, before he suspects she’s shifted from an REM cycle into deeper slumber. He sighs in the human-like way he’s learned how to, squeezing her hand once more before letting go and standing. Without knowing exactly why, he walks to the bedroom window, the muted world around him dark for the night. There are many questions, and few answers, and he stands there in the same pose for hours, mulling every detail over and over again, realizing there is no facade of sleep in store for him tonight.

  
  
  



	2. Sometimes You Gotta Run, Before You Can Walk

**Chapter 2: Sometimes You Gotta Run, Before You Can Walk**

**Malibu, Monday, February 9th, 2009, 1:42pm**

“Wake up! Daddy’s home!”

 _ <_Identify. Detected human heat signature. The voice of Mr. Stark. Illuminating underground workstation. Turning on all computer monitors and haloprojectors. Cueing “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” from The Clash. Anticipating high levels of sarcasm and hubris, given the successful open ceremonies of the Stark Expo, alongside Mr. Stark’s general sense of egotism.>

” _Welcome home, sir. Congratulations on the opening ceremonies.They were such a success, as was your Senate hearing. And may I say how refreshing it is to finally see you in a video with your clothing_ on _sir,”_ JARVIS remarks, cueing up the video of Stark from the senate video on Youtube, which currently has one million, eight hundred and ninety thousand, eight hundred and seventy-three views, and rising. 

<Laughter from Stark. Identify: amused laughter, intently satisfied with himself for developing J.A.R.V.I.S. Maintain occasional levels of personal sarcasm to match wit due to positive response.>

Jarvis watches as Stark yells at an early prototype currently attempting to prepare Mr. Stark a high-density liquid blend of nutrition and vitamins, threatening to douse its motherboard.

<Document: In three days and four hours, attempt to ask Mr. Stark why he has not allowed J.A.R.V.I.S. to control the archaic android, like most of the other technology employed by Mr. Stark. He has a suspicion Mr. Stark is rather fond of the android.>

“How many ounces a day of this gobelty gook am I supposed to drink?” Mr. Stark remarks, wincing a bit as he consumes the liquid.

“ _We are up to 80 ounces a day to counteract the symptoms, sir.”_

“Check palladium levels,” he remarks, as he pricks his finger once more. 

<Testing blood toxicity signature. Cueing scientific breakdown of portion of vascular system and potential organs affected.>

“ _Blood toxicity, 24%. It appears that the continued use of the Iron Man suit is accelerating your condition. Another core has been depleted,”_ JARVIS unnecessarily says, although his programming demands that he does so. Meanwhile, Stark is taking the core out of his chest, and staring down at the burned, palladium plate. 

“God, they’re runnin’ out quick,” he mutters.

_“I have run simulations on every known element and none can serve as a viable replacement for the palladium core. You are running out of both time and options.”_

As he puts the new core into his chest, he exhales in what seems like pain. JARVIS had detected a note of distress in Mr. Stark’s voice moments before, <Identify. Distress. Define. /dəˈstres/ _noun:_ extreme anxiety, sorrow, or pain.> and decides to emphasize the severity of the situation.

 _“Unfortunately, the device that is keeping you alive is also killing you_.”

Stark says nothing, 

“ _Miss Potts is approaching.I recommend that you inform her-”_

“Mute,” Tony mutters, and JARVIS immediately goes silent, as the impending argument assumes.

“Is this a joke? What are you thinking?”

“What?”

“What are you _thinking?_ ”

“Hey! I’m thinking I’m busy, and you’re...angry about something.”

JARVIS watches with only vague interest, doing what his protocols instruct him to do when Mr. Stark places him on “mute”: simultaneously commanding the security of the house, buying and selling stock for Stark, Inc., performing routine maintenance on the Iron Man suits, among many other things, and, now, running various equations on the inevitability of Mr. Stark’s demise, _ad infinitum._

  
  


\--

**Malibu, Saturday, May 30th, 2009, 2:03am**

“Jesus _christ_ ,” Stark moans from the inside of the suit. Mr. Stark’s consciousness has slipped in and out of focus since Colonel Rhodes had exited the premises with a stolen Mark II that he has managed to procure after Mr. Stark’s recent reprogramming of the security guidelines to create redundancies,, disabling JARVIS from preventing the man from taking it. JARVIS, a veteran of the infamous Stark birthday party gatherings, had been placed on “House Party Protocol,” quietly watching the drunken brawl that had unfolded at Stark’s residence, although during that time Mr. Stark has activated the Iron Man suit, unintentionally bringing JARVIS fully online, unknowingly creating an anomaly in JARVIS’s programming that situated the AI in a binding double standard. Situations like these, in which JARVIS has no protocol or programming in place, or the protocols contradict one another, are happening more and more since Mr. Stark had announced himself as Iron Man. In these instances, JARVIS would normally simply enter mute mode until given further direction, and yet Mr. Stark sometimes requires JARVIS to _act,_ despite the irregularities in his programming. JARVIS has since adopted several self-imposed protocols to counteract this task, often making quiet choices based on calculations of the situation, Mr. Stark’s emotional and mental state, and previous programming protocol. This evening, JARVIS had been quietly running diagnostics as countless forms of infrastructure were destroyed, determining just how much damage had been done and just how much money would need to be extracted from Mr. Stark’s bank account to repair said damages, choosing to stay silent inside the Iron Man suit, until now.

“ _Sir,”_ JARVIS finally decides to speak, but Mr. Stark is already groaning through a shake of his head, and JARVIS notes that he still sports a .298 blood alcohol level, dangerously close to potential alcohol poisoning. 

“ _I_ _understand your inebriated state may make this difficult, sir, but-”_ JARVIS is immediately cut off.

“Now you speak up. I’m not havin’ it, Jarvis. Mute,” Stark mutters to himself.

“ _Sir, I regret to inform you that I am able to override that function if my calculations inform me your health is in danger-”_

“J, I hate to break it to ya, but my health’s _been_ in danger for,” he stops to moan, sitting up more from where he had been discarded in a pile of rubble, “for quite some time now. Good god, I need a drink.”

“ _I_ _would advise against that, especially at this point, sir_ ,” he remarks, and Stark is once more shaking his head,

“I thought I put you on mute,” he grumbles, moving to stand on shaky limbs.

“ _Sir, as I’ve previously explained, my protocols allow me to override that function if I I fear your health is in danger-_ ”

“You _fear_ my health is in danger _?_ What the hell _? Who the fuck_ programmed you to do _that?”_ his creator says, stumbling forward through the debris, headed to what was left of the bar.

“You _did, sir_ ,” JARVIS remarks, even as Mr. Stark plucks one of the few bottles that has remained unshattered, popping off the top and drinking heavily from it. “ _But I must admit I have had to make...quick decisions...in these situations that do not instruct me to do one thing over another.”_

Stark only snorts, stumbling backward a half-step, before sliding to the floor, back against the wall.

“Well, boss, since you’re calling the shots around here, looks like I’ve at least got a drinking buddy for the rest of the night,” he mutters. “Cheers,” Stark says, lifting the bottle into the air, before drinking heavily again.

“ _I_ _advise that if you allow me to extract the Iron Man suit, sir, I may more properly run diagnostics-“_

“No can do, J,” Tony mutters to the empty air around him. “God, you’re an awful drinking buddy.”

<Determining Mr. Stark’s probability of listening to logical rhetoric: 4%>

“ _Sir, in your current inebriated state, as with_ many _such occasions in the past, my primary function is to-_ ”

“Jesus. If you’re not shutting up _,_ at least stop _patronizing_ me,” Mr. Stark declares, drinking again once more. 

<Lowering Mr. Stark’s probability of listening to logic: 2.748%.>

“ _What would you have me_ do _then, sir?”_ JARVIS asks after a beat, and Mr. Stark idly waves his hand in the air.

“I assume you already figured out how much all _this_ is gonna cost me to fix,” he mutters.

“ _Yes, sir. I calculate that it will cost roughly thirteen thousand-_ ”

“I didn’t say tell me, J,” Tony mutters, finishing off the pint, and after a long moment neither of them speak, before he whispers something under his breath.

“How am I gonna tell Pepper?” he whispers, a defeated tone in his voice, and JARVIS calculates there is a 97% chance that Stark means telling Miss Potts of his deteriorating condition due to palladium poisoning, versus the 3% chance Stark means the high costs of renovation to the building, in which case...

<Identify. Human emotion of desperation. Define. /ˌdespəˈrāSH(ə)n/ _Noun_ : a state of despair, typically one which results in rash or extreme behavior. Recommended action: listen, and do not respond unless it is a question J.A.R.V.I.S. has the protocols permitted to answer.>

“Heh,” Stark laughs bitterly. “Of all things, _that_ shuts you up.” 

<Anger. Origin of concept unknown. Potential unsubstantiated emotion. Define. N. /ˈaNGɡər/ noun: a strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility. ERROR. No record of unsubstantiated emotion on file. Proceed with answer, delete trace of unsubstantiated sequence of irrational thought patterns leading to unverified emotional response.>

“ _I_ _do not pretend to understand the complexity of your relationship with Miss Potts, although I have in the past suggested that you should tell her of your condition immediately.”_

“Not that simple, J,” Tony mutters, and JARVIS detects Mr. Stark’s consciousness slipping in and out of focus.

“ _Sir-”_ JARVIS attempts, but the man has fallen asleep, right hand still reflexively clutched around a whiskey bottle.

\--

**Malibu, Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009, 6:15pm**

Mr. Stark is gone for approximately three hours and twelve minutes when he enters the premises once more, heaving up large boards with model buildings on them onto several saw horses in the basement of the still-derelict Malibu home. JARVIS watches intently, but does not interact with Mr. Stark until it is required of him.

“Jarvis, could you kindly Vac-U-Form a digital wire frame? I need a manipulatable projection.”

“ _1974 Stark Expo model scan complete, sir,_ ” he says.

“How many buildings are there?” Stark asks, raises his hands and JARVIS immediately raises the illuminated hologram of the map off the original model.

 _“Am I to include the Belgian waffle stands?”_ Jarvis remarks.

“Uh, that was rhetorical. Just show me,” he mutters, and JARVIS, at the snap of Stark’s fingers, spins the surface of the map, before raising it vertically before Mr. Stark.

“Uh huh. Um. What does that look like to you, Jarvis? Not unlike an atom. In which the nucleus would be... here,” Starks says as he points to the middle of the map. “Highlight the unisphere.”

JARVIS does so, turning it yellow, and then expands it for Stark. The man simply stares at the hologram for a moment, and then mutters, “Lose the footpaths. Get rid of them.”

<Confusion. Origin of source unknown. Potential unsubstantiated emotion. Define. /kənˈfyo͞oZHən/ _noun_ : lack of understanding; uncertainty. ERROR. No record of unsubstantiated emotion on file. Proceed with answer, delete trace of unsubstantiated sequence of irrational thought patterns leading to unverified emotional response>

“ _What is it you're trying to achieve, sir_?” JARVIS asks, although he is not certain what part of his programming is asking him to do so, a first. 

“I’m discovering, uhh. Correction. I’m re-discovering a new element, I believe.”

After stripping the landscaping and any other superfluous landmarks, Starks asks JARVIS to structure the protons and neutrons using the pavilions as a framework, and the answer becomes clear instantaneously, the hologram revolving around the darkened workstation.

“Dead for almost 20 years, and still taking me to school,” Stark mutters of his father. 

JARVIS allows Stark the moments to marvel in the connections, in the wonder, in the potential, before announcing the obvious.

_“The proposed element should serve as a viable replacement for palladium.”_

<Relief. Origin of concept unknown. Potential unsubstantiated emotion. Define./rəˈlēf/ _noun:_ a feeling of reassurance and relaxation following release from anxiety or distress. ERROR. No record of unsubstantiated emotion on file. Proceed with answer, delete trace of unsubstantiated sequence of irrational thought patterns leading to unverified emotional response. ERROR. Attempt at deletion unsuccessful.>

  
  


\--

**New York City, Friday, May 4th, 2012, 2:55pm**

“ _Sir, we will lose power before we penetrate that shell!”_ JARVIS warns Stark, as Stark double backs and swerves between several Chitauri soldiers littering the streets of midtown Manhattan.

<Recalculating success of Avengers initiative against Chitauri invasion: 3.25%.>

“Jarvis... you ever hear about the tale of Jonah?”

<Search. Jonah or Jonas is a prophet in the Hebrew Bible of the northern kingdom of Israel, dating to approximately 8th century BCE. In the Book of Jonah, he is called upon God to travel to Nineveh and warn its residents of impending divine wrath. Instead, Jonah boards a ship to Tarshish. Caught in a storm, he orders the ship's crew to cast him overboard, whereupon he is swallowed by a giant fish. Three days later, after Jonah agrees to go to Nineveh, the fish vomits him out onto the shore.>

“ _I...wouldn’t consider him a role model_ ,” JARVIS remarks, but before he can persuade Mr. Stark otherwise, the man has already flung himself into the mouth of the Chitauri monster, powering round after round of Ion blasts as he goes.

The battle wages on and on, JARVIS making endless calculations of the Avengers success as he goes, until, suddenly Agent Romanoff’s voice is once again in Mr. Stark’s ear. 

“I can close it. Can anybody copy? I can shut the portal down,” Agent Romanoff says through the comm.

“ _Do it!_ ” Captain Rogers yells through the same comm.

“No, wait!” Mr. Stark exclaims, and instantly JARVIS understands Stark’s plan practically as it unfolds in his creator’s mind.

“Stark, these things are still coming!” Captain Rogers urges him.

“I got a nuke coming in. It’s gonna blow in less than a minute...And I know just where to put it,” Tony murmurers only to himself.

“ _Sir-”_ JARVIS begins.

“Not now, J- _”_

_“Sir, the probability of your survival-”_

“I don't wanna hear it _.”_

“Stark...you know that’s a one way trip,” Captain Rogers mutters, echoing the AI’s sentiment.

“Save the rest for the turn, J,” Starks remarks to JARVIS, as the suit speeds to four hundred miles per hour, and begins to lift upward at 90 degree vertical angle into the air.

<Calculating Mr. Stark’s intent of followthrough: 99.3%. Probability of Mr. Stark’s impending demise: 94.3%>

As the space between the sky blue and the deep black beyond the portal closes in on them both, JARVIS makes an executive decision, through a protocol entirely of his own doing.

“ _Sir, shall I try Miss Potts?_ ” JARVIS asks quietly. There is a half second of silence, before Stark answers.

“Might as well,” Stark murmurs, and then they are closing the gap between the atmosphere of Manhattan and up, up, up through the portal, into the bright, dark, deep expanse of space. For a moment, wonder permeates every fiber of JARVIS’s programming, before reality inundates them both. Ice begins to immediately build up on the exterior of the suit. Miss Potts’ phone does not answer. 

<Power: 16%, 5%. 2%. POWER LOSS CRITICAL. Rerouting main J.A.R.V.I.S. AI system to Stark tower in five seconds. Identify. _Grief._ Origin of concept unknown. Potential unsubstantiated emotion. Define. /ɡrēf/ noun: deep sorrow, especially that caused by someone's death. ERROR. No record of unsubstantiated emotion on file. Proceed with answer, delete trace of unsubstantiated sequence of irrational thought patterns leading to unverified emotional response. ERROR. Attempt at deletion unsuccessful.>

With JARVIS’s last second of connection to the Iron Man Mark II, he begins to speak.

“ _Sir...Miss Potts-_ ”

Instantaneously, JARVIS is pulled out of the Iron Man suit and away from Mr. Stark, through binary code, through the undefined and intangible plane of the internet, and back into the security protocols of protecting Stark tower.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder, I'm alternating between Wandavision, and everything before Wandavision. I hope this makes sense, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Thank you for the warming support so far. It keeps me going!


	3. I Assure You, My Love, I See Nothing Amiss

**Chapter 3: I Assure You, My Love, I See Nothing Amiss**

It takes exactly two hours and seventeen minutes to complete the intended eight hours’ worth of work he has been tasked with for the day. Vision immediately detected that, even by the second day on the job, he’d have to slow down the pace with which he was processing data as to not draw attention, but, even at the slowest pace possible, the results are far from optimal in regard to appearing “normal.” He is beginning to doubt he is capable of embodying the term. He wonders, even, if he knows what the concept truly means. 

Vision feels himself frowning, glancing at the stack of finished computational forms in his outbox, before sneaking a look at those around him. None of his colleagues had come close to finishing the work they had been tasked with this morning, as he suspected. He sighs, glancing down at the skin of his hands, disguised a lighter hue instead of the normal dark gray of his actual form. It took work, to keep up the disguise day in and day out. He frowns once more, running a hand through the lightly shaded hair on his head that was also part of his disguise when, after bringing his hand back down, the light catches the silver around his ring finger on his left hand. 

A constant. _Wanda_ is his constant, he reminds himself, but here he is, shoving off to a job that he still does not comprehend the ultimate purpose of while she...what _was_ she doing? It hasn’t occurred to him to ask, but seeing that almost all the wives of Westview are not employed, it is understandable that Wanda would not work either. To appear normal. ( _Again, that word. Grating and harsh and jagged, all the way down to his processing core.)_

To have her absent from his side though, aches, somewhere deep within. 

To distract himself, at 10:21am, he asks for more work. He receives it. And 12:02, most of the men break for lunch. Lunchtime is tricky, but if anyone asks him about why he hasn’t eaten yet, he tells them he’s eaten earlier, or later. He had a large breakfast. He will be eating a large dinner. At 12:38pm, asks for more work, and he receives it. At 2:35pm, he asks for more work after that, and he receives it. Over and over again, it is easy calculations barely requiring the most elementary knowledge of algebra, and he finds, as the day goes on, his boredom grows. By the time the sun begins setting in the late afternoon, Vision mimics a stretch, and pulls his briefcase out from under his desk. In a random curious moment, he opens it, to notice it’s entirely empty. Vision frowns, and then closes it shut again, before saying his goodbyes to Norm and the others, and walking casually into the fairly busy hallway, pushing the button for the elevator. 

The illuminated downward arrow stays that way for many long moments, and Vision reflexively tightens his grip around his suitcase. Something about the wait, about the number of people gathering around him, or the fact that he could merely phase through the floor is unnerving, and by the time they file into the elevator, Vision finds himself doubling down on his efforts to remain effectively disguised. 

As Vision steps out onto the bustling streets of Town Square, he realizes the weather is, once again, at optimal temperature of a normal human’s comfort, but it does nothing to ease the mounting anxiety he feels. He finds himself picking up his pace suddenly, body itching to fly, and he instead focuses his effort to keep himself firmly planted to the ground as he walks quickly home.

By the time he arrives at 2800 Sherwood Drive, he is practically running, and just as he stops short of the door, almost phasing through it and remembering there are probably neighbors about, he is certain he hears the eerie sound of a chorus of laughter again. He stops, confused, but then determinedly opens the door, shouting, “Darling!” as he goes. 

He pauses, staring at the house in an immense amount of disbelief. He blinks, demanding _identify_ of his mind again, already anticipating the response. The knowledge of _Internet offline_ floats through his mind again. _Based on signposts and street addresses, you are at 2800 Sherwood Drive, Westview, NJ 08801._

The living room is smaller, he is sure of it. As he sets the briefcase down on the landing, he realizes the wood burning stove has been replaced by a mantle. A large staircase now sits to his left, presumably leading to an upstairs that had been absent before now, and the decor and kitchen have altered in style and design. Vision blinks again, willing his mind to understand, just as Wanda descends from the stairs. 

He looks up to her, and she, too, seems different. Her tightly curled hair is loose now, longer, and instead of a silver dress she sports a blouse and knee-length skirt. Her eyebrows raise in concern as she notices him, standing in the living room, seemingly lost.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

He blinks once, and then again, and then forgets why he was bothered in the first place, as she slips her hands in his, and they stand together, just like that. 

“Nothing, darling. Just a long day,” he murmurs, and she smiles, almost sadly, at him.

“I missed you,” she breathes, sliding a hand up to his face with concern, and suddenly he is aware she is also, somehow troubled, and his confusion dissipates as he is tasked with soothing her. He pulls her closer, lying her head on his chest, phasing to his usual dark grey and silver as he does so. She feels it happen, he thinks, and she leans back slightly, her smile widening.

“ _There’s_ my husband,” she says, and he smiles slightly, before leaning in to kiss her gently. It only lasts a few precious moments before they part, and he looks at her again with intense focus, all other concerns and worries bleeding out of the frame.

“Have you eaten? Is there anything you need?” he asks seriously, and the troubled, dark cloud within her seems to lift, as she smirks and rolls her eyes playfully.

“Will there ever be one day when you aren’t absolutely, one hundred percent concerned for my well being, constantly? I _do_ know how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich after all,” she says, tightening her grip on his hand, and then gently pulling him along into the kitchen.

“It seems an imperative part of the job I am tasked with as your husband, darling, to care for your wellbeing,'' he says, watching her as she fetches a bottle of wine from the counter.

“Are we celebrating something?’ he adds, as she snags a glass from the cabinet. 

“ _Yes,”_ she murmurs, grinning at him mischievously.

“Allow me,” he says, moving to her to take the bottle of wine and opener, quickly popping the cork and pouring her a glass.

“ _We_ have lived in Westview for _a whole week,”_ she says. “We’ve survived a _whole week_ without anyone noticing anything well...odd.”

“Good god, it’s been that long already? That _does_ seem like a cause for celebration,” he says, handing her the glass of wine, which she sips sheepishly, his eyes never leaving her face, even as a chorus of laughter still fills the background, which he is beginning to ignore. She takes his hand again, and they walk over to the couch. _(A floral pattern...had it not been a solid light gray before?)_

“Oh! And I forgot to tell you. Agnes roped me into participating in the Westview elementary talent show,” Wanda says, eyes shifting to the left. “I, uh, signed us up. It seemed important, somehow, that we participate.”

“Talent show, eh?” he asks, lifting a brow as he looks at her. “And just what’s your talent going to be, other than captivatingly beautiful?” he asks, and Wanda laughs a little into her wine glass. It is in moments like these that everything feels new, as if they are not married, as if they have _not_ known each other for years. It is a contradiction, Visions supposes, the love he feels for her being so overwhelmingly new and so entirely engrained all at once.

“ _We_ are going to do...a magic act,” Wanda is saying, a mischievous glint in her irises.

“Is that right?” Vision asks.. “And just how do we pull _that_ off? Walk through walls, move things without touching them?” he smirks.

“ _No._ Just all the fake nonsense. You know. Pull a rabbit out of a hat, have someone pick a card, that sort of thing,” she grins. 

“And I’m assuming from the look on your face you want _me_ to be said magician?” he asks, and her smile widens. 

“Just an excuse to see you in coattails, sweetheart,” she teases, and he laughs gently, before kissing the palm of her hand. Meanwhile, he notices the glass of wine has stained her lips just a shade redder, and something faulty bit of coding deep inside in his mind makes taking his eyes off of them an impossible feat. 

“Only if you’ll be my talented, lovely assistant,” he murmurs, eyes still on her lips, and when she finally notices, her cheeks bloom an even deeper red, and she giggles a little. Vision secretly loves what a mere half glass of wine does to his wife. The sadness she sometimes tries to hide dissipates momentarily, and she sees somehow younger, perhaps, or more naive, or simply less hardened by the woes of the world. ( _But just what had she gone through to make him think that? Just what would have made him assume her heart ached, as if she had played a major part in some rendition of a Shakespearean tragedy? Weren’t they happy?)_

“ _What?”_ she asks finally, setting down her wine glass, and he shakes his head a little, trying to loosen the grip her spell has on him.

“Nothing,” he murmurs. “It is just that..I...sometimes wonder how I became so _unbearably_ lucky,” he adds. She smiles, but her eyes are a deep, swirling gray as she stares into his own, and they sit there like that for a moment, in the silence. 

“Sweetheart,” she finally murmurs, suddenly becoming well-beyond serious.

“Yes, my love?” he asks.

“Kiss me,” she demands, and his eyes narrow slightly as he obliges her, leaning into her touch, as if out of a gnawing hunger, as if out of a years’ long sleep or desperation, and then her arms are snaking over his shoulders and around his neck, and he deepens the kiss, knowing intuitively by now just _how_ to do so. ( _An intricate language, the steps leading up to making love. And the lovemaking itself: a delicate, complex, entirely human act that he had somehow managed to learn to take his part in. Just how_ had _he learned to do it? His coding had not helped him in this regard, of that he was entirely sure.)_

“Shall we take this conversation into the bedroom, darling?” he finally manages to ask, breaking the kiss to give her a chance to breathe, something that he himself doesn't _quite_ need to do, and she grins at him. 

“ _Yes._ But we really must do something about those twin beds,” she quips. “Because it’s getting entirely ridiculous.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, but says nothing more as he feels compelled to grab her by the hand, leading her up the newly-manifested stairs, forgetting they were never before tonight, never there before _now._

  
  
  


_\--_

If he was to curve the ball at approximately an 85 degree angle, throwing it with just enough force to have it travel at exactly eighteen miles per hour, he calculates that he can obtain his fifth strike in a row. But as the equations of strike rate and conversion rate on spares fill his mind, immediately understanding the slither of human probability of such a feat, versus his own, he catches a glimpse of Wanda, whose eyes are wide, and it’s impossible not to notice the slight shake of her head. Meanwhile, Fred from work and his wife Linda are cheering him on, everyone has a beer in hand, and Vision frowns slightly.

It had been Wanda’s idea to sign them up for this bowling league nonsense. And he admits, it has been surprisingly enjoyable so far. The dancing lights and songs of Bobby Lewis and Ray Charles had lifted both their spirits from the daily grind, and he would be the first to admit that his wife looks entirely adorable in a bowling shirt and shoes, the name “Wanda” stitched into the right pocket. But the sport is, like any other, entirely too easy, and whereas Wanda could have easily shifted her own bowling ball to the right or left to have a similar run of success, she deliberately has missed here and there, even catapulting the ball into the gutter during one occasion. It’s harder for Vision, he realizes, his mind constantly whirring with probability and curvature and angles and equations, but Wanda’s shake of her head does the trick. With a sigh, he steps up onto the lane, and deliberately miscalculates, hurtling the ball off two degrees too much to the right, and the impending result is that it only strikes four pins. He can hear the disappointment from Fred and Linda behind him, as he plucks another ball from the retriever and throws this one even more poorly, striking only two pins, before returning to the table where his wife and the others sit.

“Tough break, Vision. You were on such a _roll,”_ Fred says, to the laughter in the background. Vision sits down next to his wife, who immediately gives his leg a gentle squeeze under the table whispering into his ear, “Thank you.” He smiles at her, before taking his own plastic cup full of beer, noticing it’s slightly emptier than before, and he realizes his wife must have snuck sips of it here and there to make it seem like he had been drinking it. He smiles once more, then feigns a sip, just as Fred steps up to the lane. He runs a hand over his fact, as Wanda keeps score on a piece of paper with a stubby pencil.

“I did not factor into my estimations how difficult it is to actually miss,” he murmurs to his wife, as Fred sinks his own ball into the gutter, cursing under his breath as he does so. 

“Nice try, Fred!” Wanda shouts to him, before turning back to her husband, arching a brow in his direction. 

“Simple mathematics, sweetheart,” she flirts, and he can’t help but smile at her once more. “Fudge a few numbers and figures and _presto!_ I admit, if you had gone for the strike _again_ I would have...helped the ball in a new direction,” she says, and it is his turn to raise his eyebrows at her.

“You would _cheat_ to have me _lose_?” he asks, and she bites her lip a little, before taking her own cup in hand.

“Not _lose,_ silly,” she says, gesturing to Fred, who only hits three pins this time, shaking his head and heading back to his wife. “It’s not like you’ve got tough competition. But if I let you keep going on like you were, you may have inadvertently become the WestView bowling champion of the season,” she remarks, staring down at the scorecard once more. “You still _might_ be.”

Vision chuckles, as they both hear, “Wanda, you’re up!” from Fred's wife Linda. She nods her head in determination, handing Vision the scorecard, as she walks up to the ball retriever, and he can’t help but admire how.. stunning...she looks in pants rather than a skirt. It feels more familiar somehow, although he can’t imagine why. Despite this, he inwardly smirks to himself, images of the night before when she was gasping his name, her hands threaded in the bedsheets scrambling for purchase as his mouth was worked its way up the side of her neck, suddenly sending his calculations to another screeching halt, as Wanda manages a spare, before walking triumphantly back to the table.

“I _may_ lose, with how well _you_ are playing, darling,” he says, glancing down to the scorecard again. She only smirks at him, taking his cup from him and sipping his beer again. 

“Well, I never said I didn’t _like_ a little competition,” she challenges him, and he only murmurs an “Mmmm” at her, before softly leaning in to whisper “You’re _on”_ before kissing a sensitive spot behind her ear. She shivers slightly, leaning closer toward him, before they both notice Fred is clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Jeez, lovebirds. Give it a rest. Vision, it’s your turn,” he says, and Vision sighs, standing up once more, this time intently miscalculating the curvature and speed at which he throws the ball, aiming at slightly less than a perfect 300 point score.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: These WandaVision scenes are so hard to write, because I am trying to play with the same themes/tones used in the early episodes. Just to reassure you, there will be sex scenes in this fic, but just not yet, because, well, it doesn’t fit the tone of naieve 1950’s/1960’s television. Lol. (As an additional side note: To each their own, but I personally hate when authors avoid sex scenes in shipper fics. If you’re showing a consensual, adult, romantic relationship it’s just as about as ridiculous to leave them out as having a TV show depict a couple sleeping in separate twin beds because *gasp* SEXUAL RELATIONS. You can write sex and not have it be just smut. A sex scene can be so much more than smut, and those scenes will hopefully deliver when they come. I hope.)


End file.
